


Fragility

by 54mmyR011



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Abusive Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Injury, Breaking banishment, Flashbacks, Guard Remus, Hurt Deceit | Janus Sanders, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Janus gets a hug, Janus needs a hug, Lord Janus, M/M, POV Alternating, PTSD, Past Abuse, Patton is just here for his kiddos, Remus is a great boyfriend and guard, Remus is trying his best, Roman doesn’t know what’s going on, Smart Logic | Logan Sanders, Sort Of, Violence, calling asylum, everyone is a fantasy race, he’s trying to get better though, i lied there is some made up language, kind of, no translation for that, the townspeople are not having it, they speak a few languages but it’s all English here for ease of reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25197859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/54mmyR011/pseuds/54mmyR011
Summary: The past comes back to haunt you, despite years of trying to forgive, forget, become a better person. Nobody can help it, nobody wants it, but they all have to deal with it.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders
Kudos: 49





	Fragility

“Are you sure there’s no other way? None at all?”

Roman glances over to him, something in his eyes that isn’t quite okay. “If there was, we wouldn’t be entertaining the idea in the first place. I understand you may have… some reservations against going to the city, but in order to get what we need, we must go to the source, and the only source is the Lord.”

Virgil clentches his teeth. Roman may understand somewhat, but not fully. Not that he would. Virgil wasn’t going to just… tell them. 

“Kiddo, we can try and, you know, cover you up if it makes you this uncomfortable?”

“Or, perhaps, a more convenient and safe option would be for you to stay out of the city while we enter and attempt to gain favor.”

Virgil sighs through his nose. 

“No. Roman, you’re sure, one hundred percent, that there’s nothing else we can do?”

Roman laughs half heartedly, but after a second it falls off, unsure. He nods. “... yeah, it’s the only way.”

He tries to keep his hands from shaking. 

“Then I know the easiest way in.”

“Ah, I had forgotten you were raised in the city. Are there tunnels, perhaps? Do you know the guard schedule?”

He shakes his head. “We won’t have to sneak around.”

Roman raises a brow. “What, will we just… walk in, then?”

He balls his hands into fists. His nails cut into his palms. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Roman stares at him for a long moment. He nods. “Whatever you have planned…”

“Everything will be fine. Probably. Hopefully. Just… remember…” he tries to keep his breathing steady. “Remember when I told you guys that… that I wasn’t a good person? I… I’m going to need you guys to not react when we get to the city. No matter what. Don’t fight, don’t argue, don’t even make a face. I wouldn’t even recommend speaking at all, if you want to keep your head.”

Patton hesitates. “Kiddo, you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Virgil shakes his head again. “Nah, Pat. There’s only one way to get into the city safely, and I know it.”

Logan hums. “While both curious and worried, I agree to your terms. If it is likely we may be injured, I will stay in the back of the party so as to possibly be ready to heal any of us.”

Virgil cracks a half smile to Logan. “Thanks, Logan. I… I don’t think I’ll really be able to explain anything, but… you might figure it out once we get there anyways.”

“I will respect your decision and your privacy and not endeavor to learn more than what is simply given to me.”

Roman pauses in cleaning his greaves. “...I don’t think this is a good idea, whatever it is. But… if you’re sure, then, perhaps, I will try to appear as relaxed as possible.”

Virgil smiles at them.

He fears the day they learn what he had done. 

  
  


Willingly entering the city he had been banished from so many years ago is akin to willingly walking into a spike trap. While possible, it required a lot of willpower and preparation, emotionally. 

Stepping through the main doors into the outskirts is easy enough. 

He tries to control his breathing and not tense up as the first handful of citizens begin to notice him.

At first, it’s just side glances. Parents usher their children inside, children stare, guards glare. Towards the middle of the city, the families stop moving, start glaring, start hissing at him in groves. The guards follow for brief periods of time, and if any of them step too close to a citizen, the closest guards tense and he can clear the clutter of their armor hitting each other, shivering almost. 

It’s at the very edge of the inner city where they get stopped. 

A handful of higher powered citizens gather around them. 

He motions to Roman when he hears the warrior’s breathing quicken. Roman takes a deep breath. Relaxes. 

He waits a hot second before he starts walking again, slowly, and he doesn’t even flinch when the first claw comes at him. 

Patton cries out, but he motions to him- again, he can hear an intake of breath, and Patton doesn’t react. 

He doesn’t attempt to cover the bubbling wound across his shoulder. 

The swipes are few and far between, mostly just the hissing and the spat insults in, thankfully, the language only those raised in the city know. 

It’s halfway to the center when the first guard actually stops them. 

By grabbing him by the neck and heaving him into the air, growling, hissing, face drawn back in a snarl. 

“You have a lot of nerve, coming back here,” the guard growls, and he keeps his breathing as steady as he can, because smallest of hopes, the guard has yet to change his language to any of the commons. 

“I declare asylum,” he mutters, ears back and eyes nearly closed. He does not bring his claws to his throat, where he can feel the guard’s fist tighten. Pain, in five pricks on his neck. He can feel his tail twitch. He forces his hands to stay at his side. 

The guard nearly screams, but sets him down.

“And your  _ party _ ?” The guard spits out.

“They have done nothing. They know nothing. They request safety while I am held.”

The guard snarls at him, and he can see the puffy tail trashing. 

Cut in half. 

He hides the cringe at the thought, the phantom reminder. It wasn’t even directly related. 

He just. 

The scar must be massive. 

" _ Fine _ .” He hisses, and snatches him by the bicep. 

He nearly falls as he’s dragged forward, stumbles, but catches himself and quickens his pace to match the guard’s. 

Strangely, his party is following. 

He opens his mouth, almost speaks, but stops himself. Speaking would only hurt them, he knows. Best to keep silent. 

He doesn’t talk the rest of the way to the center. 

The doors are just as harrowing to look up at. 

The guards at the door tense. 

Their fur bristles. 

They snarl. 

“Alert the Lord and his Second!”

The order is in a common. 

He holds back the shiver that runs through him. 

The two guards sprint inside, but he can see at least twice as they glance back to him. 

He steps into the castle. 

  
  


“My Lord, I regret to inform you that the Banished has returned and requested asylum.”

That phrase, he had feared for so long. 

He had feared it for years. 

Hadn’t wanted to ever hear it. 

Had thought, upon hearing it, if ever, he might scream. 

Cry. 

Grab an axe and kill the messenger. 

And yet, today, as he pulls on his clothes, staring at himself in the ceiling length mirror, trying to ignore the way the sight of his bed has suddenly become something to ignore, he does none of those things. 

He does not scream. He does not cry. He does not kill. 

He feels nothing. 

The messenger has long since left. 

He has long since brushed the last piece of dust from his shoulders. 

His collar has long since been righted. 

He tries to ignore the way his face burns. 

He steps out of his chambers and walks out to the main hall. 

His Second stands at the ready, mouth firmly shut, and when he hears footsteps, he turns on his heels. 

“My Lord,” he hisses, quiet enough to be between just the two of them. “I can send them out if you wish, or order for their heads, you don’t have to—“

He holds a hand up. 

His Second freezes. 

Clentches his teeth. 

Nods. 

His face is tense, but his eyes are upset. 

He steps around the chair and into the sight of the party. 

There are four of them. He hadn’t expected that, but… it isn’t exactly surprising. Virgil always had been… easy to befriend. 

Two are tall, much taller than Virgil, and the third is much shorter, perhaps a halfling. The tallest and the shortest both have eyewear, as uncommon as it must be for what he assumes to be the Druid. 

But the fourth. 

Magenta eyes stare out at him from nearly-purple gray fur. 

He can feel his hands shaking. 

He must have stood there for far too long, not saying anything. 

Remus touches his elbow - t he slightest of pressure.

He forces himself to sit in the chair. 

He nearly crumples. 

He keeps his face flat. 

“... An,” he begins. Hesitates. 

Virgil takes a deep breath. 

“Virgil, actually.”

He bites his tongue. 

“Virgil,” he corrects. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Virgil looks… uncomfortable. 

That… is unexpected. 

“My party and I require supplies that only you can provide.”

He lets out a breath. 

It’s quiet. 

Shaky. 

“Of course. And why would I help you with that?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out so harshly. 

He already knows he will help. 

He hates that. 

It burns in his chest. 

He wants to cut it out with his own sword.

Virgil closes his eyes for just a second. “I requested asylum while we are here, and while I don’t expect you to… help us, I am willing to… exchange for their provisions.”

He can feel it. 

The tension. 

From the party behind Virgil. 

From the body beside him. 

“What would I get out of this?”

It’s just conversation at this point. Hardly even an actual negotiation. But even as he says it, he knows that Virgil wouldn’t get it, wouldn’t manage to hear it in his voice. 

He wasn’t one to listen to the intricacies of one person’s speech. 

“If you don’t want a trade, we will leave.”

It’s said with a harshness he knows Virgil does not intend, and yet it shoves a spike of pain through him. Virgil’s face tightens, half annoyance, half regret. 

He only responds when Virgil begins to turn to leave. 

His voice is far too desperate for his liking. 

“I didn’t say no.”

Virgil’s tail twitches. Nearly flicks. His ears shiver. 

He turns around. 

His eyes are dark. 

His jaw is clentched. 

“Remus,” he says after a moment. His Second stands straighter. “Get them a room in the castle for the night and ask the marshal to prepare.”

Remus eyes him for a long second. He nods. “Yes my Lord.”

Remus steps down, to the party, and switches to a commons. 

“Please, follow me to your quarters.”

The party moves. 

Virgil turns away. 

“Virgil,” he says, and he hadn’t mean to speak. He curses himself as Virgil stops and turns back to him again. 

He can’t manage anything out for a long minute. 

“Please, enjoy a meal with me. Just one.”

Virgil doesn’t hold back the shiver that runs through his fur this time. His eyes narrow, confused, hurt, worried. 

His mouth opens, and he can see the edges of fangs. 

He takes a deep breath and remembers that it’s been years. 

“Tonight. You remember where my chambers are?”

“Of course.”

Virgil leaves. 

He watches until Virgil’s tail disappears behind an entryway. 

Stops holding back the shiver that cuts through him. 

Slumps into his chair. 

Covers the scar across half his face with his palms. 

Doesn’t hold back the tears. 

He wants Remus to be done already.

  
  


He doesn’t have to wait long after returning to his chambers before Remus walks in. 

His mace thunks onto the floor. 

Remus steps closer, ignores the empty bed, and kneels down, where he curls against the corner. 

A hand, running through his hair. 

“They’re all set, my Lord.”

He hums a halfhearted response. 

Remus sits beside him. 

Arms. 

Pressure. 

"...you invited him to a meal.”

It isn’t a question. 

An involuntary whine escapes him, followed by a whimper. 

Remus hugs him tighter. 

“Do you want me here? I can stand guard outside the door, if you wish.”

He nods, unable to speak, and he can feel Remus relax slightly. 

Relief. 

“It’ll be okay, Jay. We’ll get through this together.”

He can’t hold back the sob. 

Remus holds him tighter. 

Rocks.

  
  


Virgil heaves a sigh as he finally drops to his bed. That had gone on far too long. But it couldn’t have gone any faster, not without the end result having been much, much worse. 

He closes his eyes and curls into himself.

“... Virge, we should wrap those wounds.”

He opens his eyes to Patton, worriedly shifting between feet, hands high up his chest and a roll of bandages in hand. His medical bag hangs at his side. 

He licks the back of his teeth and sighs. 

“It’s just a few scratches, Pat, they’ll heal before the morning.”

And it’s true, as bad as they may appear. The blood has crusted on his clothes by now, and every movement cracks it. 

“While that is true, it is still possible for your wounds to become infected beforehand,” Logan says.

He groans. “Okay, well, I’m going to sleep now, and nobody will bother me.”

Logan had definitely rolled his eyes, and, while not quite comfortable, Patton had sat back to his own bed. 

Roman steps back into the room. He had gone out for just a moment to breathe. Virgil knows he was the most easily angered - Logan had the worst temper, yes, but Roman would draw his sword at even a hint of a slight against anyone he cares for, and he would have been furious and fuming by the time they had been led to the party chamber. 

“Ugh, this castle needs to be cleaned, I can taste the dust in my throat already.”

It’s a flat out lie. This castle is arguably the best kept in the country, and Roman knows it. But he had probably heard the near-argument and wanted to diffuse the tension. 

Virgil turns to face the stone wall and curls tighter into himself. He doesn’t have the energy to banter. 

“Well, if no one is going to engage with this righteous royal, then I might as well get ready for a rest myself.”

“Ah, I have some food if you want?”

“Quite! Thank you, Patton, you are always the best relief to my hunger.”

He closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep for a while. 

  
  


He’s been sitting at the table in his chambers for much longer than he would admit to anyone but Remus by the time Virgil enters. 

He knows Remus is just outside the door. He knows he is safe. He knows, from just what he had seen, that Virgil was likely different. 

It doesn’t stop his heart from racing and his hands from shaking. 

He stops himself before he starts rubbing at his facial scar. 

“Welcome, Virgil.”

Virgil sits down across the table, brings his hands up to the plate in front of him, and hesitates. 

He carefully, slowly, begins to eat. 

Virgil mimics him. 

Not quite all there. 

“You wanted to speak to me, or just eat?” Virgil says after a while. 

The silence would be easier to handle if he had music. 

He tries to focus on the present. 

His eyes catch on Virgil’s clothes. 

“You’re bleeding.”

Virgil glances down - the worst is across his chest, and it’s oozing, but others are still open and it’s all nearly soaked. 

And while he knows Virgil has a lot more blood, bleeds more and easier, heals faster, he feels that same, old, familiar feeling of worry claw up his throat. 

“Ah, it’s fine.”

He hesitates, but the words come out before he can stop them. 

Familiar. 

“Let me get my medical.”

Virgil hisses, involuntary, but cuts himself off. 

He freezes, halfway standing from his chair. 

He knows, in theory, that Remus can hear everything. His ears are good, even through the stone. 

He can’t stop the way his breathing takes a long second to return, and even then it’s shaky and catches. 

Virgil cringes back from himself. 

“Sorry, I - I would prefer not to…”

He realizes. 

Of course. 

No medical would ever… 

He runs his tongue along the back of his teeth. 

Tries to focus on the present. 

“A wet rag and bandages, then.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply before he leaves. 

He supposes Virgil must have realized his leaving was more than just to help, because he doesn’t say anything. 

The second the door shuts behind him he’s holding back a sob. 

He lets the feeling overcome him for just a moment. Counts to ten, takes a deep breath, straightens, and gathers the supplies. Ignores the way his eyes burn and his hands refuse to stop shaking and he can’t feel his legs. 

The first thing he sees upon opening the door again is his bed. 

He closes his eyes and breathes. 

Steps back to the table. 

Sets the water, rag, and bandages down. 

Moves his chair closer to Virgil. 

Virgil doesn’t look at him. 

He doesn’t speak as he wets the rag and touches it to VIrgil’s cheek - the only wound not impeded by clothes. 

He drags it, light, gentle. 

The red drains into pink. 

Again. 

Again. 

He wets the rag. 

Eyes Virgil’s shoulder. 

“... do you need help with your shirt?”

It’s hesitant, and he doesn’t want to help, and he knows Virgil can tell, because he doesn’t respond, just carefully pulls the shirt off. 

And any of the wounds that might have scabbed over have cracked from the removal of the cloth. Some are leaking, others are bubbling. 

He presses the rag to the shoulder first. 

Start slow. 

Work up to the worst. 

It’s a long while before the water is too dark and the rag is soaked and he can finally reach for the bandages. 

Virgil speaks first. 

“Why?”

He glances up, back down, doesn’t stop. 

“Why what, Virgil?” His words are confident, but his tone is shaky, quiet, barely more than a breath. 

“Why are you helping us? Helping me? After…” Virgil clams up. “After everything.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Can’t, really. 

He finishes wrapping the shoulder and turns to the scratch on Virgil’s side. 

“Why not?”

Virgil hisses, catches himself, and takes a deep breath, just slightly moving the bandages. He readjusts them and tries to control his heart in his chest. 

“That’s not… please just answer me.”

He feels… he doesn’t exactly know what he feels, but it’s hot and cold and sharp all at the same time. He ignores it and sighs through his nose. 

“... I don’t think it really matters why.”

“Seriously?” It’s half crazed, half confused. “You think that answer is going to do anything?” Virgil stops, works his jaw. He breathes through his nose and starts again. “I would appreciate the truth.”

He hesitates. Finishes wrapping another wound. Steadies his hands. 

“You did what you did. It was wrong, and it was horrible and I… I still haven’t forgiven you.”

Virgil flinches, but doesn’t interrupt. 

He finishes another wound before he can bring himself to finish. 

“But… you’re… family, I suppose. I care about you, as much as it doesn’t make sense. And… family doesn’t leave family on the street side.”

It isn’t meant to be harsh. 

It is. 

Virgil closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“That doesn’t make sense.”

He bites his tongue. 

“I know, Virgil. I know.”

He finishes the last wound. 

“We can conduct negotiations whenever you wish. Afternoon is the easiest, but I am willing to change my schedule.”

Virgil goes to grab his shirt, and he hesitates before he stands. 

“... you don’t need to put that back on, I...” 

He doesn’t manage to finish before Virgil is giving him a strange look. 

“... you still have clothes here.”

Virgil grabs the ruined shirt and stuffs it into his bag. 

“... the dresser, right?”

He nods. 

Virgil steps away from him, not quite around him, but he tenses and turns to stay facing him nonetheless. 

Stupid stupid stupid stupid reflexes. 

Virgil opens the dresser. 

His clothes, while not as varied as they used to be, are still there. Pushed to the side and folded, but there. 

He can’t bring himself to look away as Virgil pulls something black on. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to look at him for any longer than necessary, but every time he tries to look away his eyes hit something else, his heart races, his hands shake, and so he sticks to staring at the mole on the back of Virgil’s neck.

It hasn’t moved in the past years. 

He waits until Virgil is dressed and sitting back down before he brings the supplies back to the closet. 

He makes sure his eyes are down when he steps through the door, to avoid the bed, but the second he passes through the passage, he freezes, can’t breathe. 

His eyes flash up, but Virgil is still sitting down, hasn’t moved, and he can somewhat calm himself with that. The memory sits in his head, in the way he has to force his shaking legs to move, the way his hands won’t clentch and his eyes are surely far too wide to be relaxed. 

Virgil glances up to him, avoids his eyes, which are surely red, but doesn’t mention anything. 

The rest of the meal is silent. 

“... thanks,” Virgil says, as he sets his fork down. 

“Ah, the meal was prepared by the staff, but—“

“You know that isn’t what I’m talking about.”

He stares at the plate in front of him. 

It stares back. 

Too reflective. 

He looks half dead. 

Panic still riles his hair, his eyes, his mouth. 

His scar seems more red than it is nowadays. 

His eyes darker. 

His cheeks more hollow. 

He closes his eyes. 

“Of course, Virgil.”

Virgil leaves without another word. 

He sits in the chair for a long time afterward, eyes closed, shaking like a leaf. 

When Remus steps inside, he’s met with hands in his hair, over his ears, on his forehead, cradling his hands, rubbing the lightest circles in his palms, the backs of his hands. 

“It’ll be okay,” Remus says, “we’ll get through this together.”

He cries again. 

  
  


Negotiations go well. 

The party gets what they want. 

He speaks in common to them, Remus beside him, and in the end, he doesn’t ask for anything in return. 

He can see it in their eyes, their suspicion. He doesn’t know who it’s aimed at. 

The thought that they are suscpious of him leaves him shaking, but he’s worked for years to keep himself strong and steady. A few hours around a table, with more than just Virgil beside him, he can deal with just fine. 

It takes three days of negotiations before they’re set and ready to leave. 

Virgil doesn’t return to his room, not for a meal nor anything else, the whole time. 

He doesn’t return to a bed the entire three days. 

He doesn’t sleep either. 

The floors and the walls are far too discomforting for sleep. 

As they’re getting ready to leave, the party gathers before him, the same as they had when they had first appeared. 

Remus is beside him, just the same, and he is in his chair, just the same. 

Virgil bows to him. 

It leaves a bad taste in his mouth. 

“Good luck,” he says, and it’s just a formality. Virgil recites the formal response, and it doesn’t even really register. The party bows to him. He sits there, watching as they wait for some sort of signal. 

He takes a breath. 

“Virgil,” he begins, and it’s not in common, but the party can recognize the name easily enough. Virgil glances up, not quite his eyes, back down to around his shoulder. "... you’re always welcome back, as… contradictive as that may seem. You are family, after all.”

Virgil doesn’t respond for a long time. 

He nods, eyes falling to his feet. 

“Thank you.”

They leave. 

Long after they have disappeared, he’s still in the chair, Remus still at his side. 

“I still love you,” he mutters to himself. “As much as I hate you for what you did.”

He lets Remus lead him away. 

Not to his own chambers, but to Remus’s. 

There’s a rug. 

Pillows. 

Blankets. 

“And now that that’s over, we’re going to take a nap, because I know you haven’t slept at all.”

And late at night, with Remus curled around behind him, safe and warm, he cries again. 

He remembers what Virgil had done to him, and while he doesn’t regret banishing him (it had hardly been harsh), he hates the fact that that feeling of love hasn’t drifted, hasn’t even waned the slightest, in so many years. 

“I love you,” Remus mutters, half asleep, and he curls closer. 

“You are the reason I am alive,” he cries, and it’s as close as he can get. 

He’s never been able to say those words to anyone. Not after Virgil. 

Remus doesn’t mind it. 

Remus understands what he means. 

  
  


Late in the night, with Patton and Roman sleeping, nearly four days after leaving the city (without any injuries, mind you), Logan speaks to him. 

“I know seventeen languages outside of the commons.”

Virgil slows to a stop as he feeds his horse. 

“... okay?”

But he already knows. 

“The language of the city was, in fact, taught to me by one of my teachers when I was young. It has changed very little since I learned it, despite how long it has been since then. I was quite surprised that, although I had not learned much of the casual banter, the insults seemed fairly clear and concise.”

Virgil closes his eyes and sighs, dropping his hands to his lap. 

“... I don’t believe I know what  _ klarskidav _ means, however, despite the fact that it is, in fact, a conjugation of the verb  _ skida _ . I believe it is simply a colloquial term—“

“It’s a literal term, Logan.”

Logan pauses. 

Virgil opens his eyes and looks to him.

His eyes are the most expressive Virgil had seen them since the last time Patton had nearly died. 

They are wide, pupils blown, barely moving. 

He glances away. 

“... I told you guys that I wasn’t a good person, before.”

“... I see.”

“I… I’m trying to be better. To change.”

Logan doesn’t say anything for a long time. 

“While I do not know the… situation, I am inclined to say that… you do not appear to be the type of person to do that currently.”

He laughs. 

It’s broken. 

Hardly amused. 

“Then you’re inclined wrong. I did it, it’s done, that’s it. It’s a thing that I did and that’s a fact that I have to live with. A memory that he,” his voice cracks. “That he has to live with.”

Logan hums. “I understand now why you were hesitant. And also the reasoning for the… anger directed at you.” He hesitates. “When we were leaving, he said… I don’t know the exact translation, but, essentially, he said you are still considered familial to him.”

“He hasn’t forgiven me, and he shouldn’t. He was being polite, he’s always been like that.”

But Logan knows that’s a lie. 

“I do believe that this is none of my business. However… you are trying to change. That is what matters.”

Virgil growls. “What matters is that he doesn’t have to see me after what I did. If I could avoid it forever, I would. I would never have chosen to subject him to that, to seeing me, to such a vivid reminder, and—“ his voice breaks again. “He… he’s worth so much more than what I thought he was, back then. Nothing I could ever do would be enough for me to accept any forgiveness, no matter what he thinks.”

Logan leans back. 

“... when you returned on the first night, you were wearing a different shirt.”

Virgil pauses, remembering that night. Only Logan had been awake. He hadn’t asked about it then. Of course, he was never one to hold back a question for very long. He was lucky Logan had kept it in for a week. “He bandaged my wounds. My…. my clothes were still in his dresser.”

Logan hums, tilting his head back. 

The stars were out. 

“... thanks for listening, Logan.”

“Of course. I have found, in my time traveling with all of you, that relieving emotions and sensations through conversation has proven to have a positive effect on all of our mental states. You are no exception.”

Virgil smirks, snorts, and leans back against the horse. 

“Yeah, whatever.”

The stars were particularly bright that night.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot I did while I was pretty much obsessed with Sanders Sides. I still enjoy it, still write for it, but this one is the only one I’ve finished (also like, one of maybe three one-shots I’ve written in my life). It has a lot of implied history, implied world building that never actually got done, and a lot is skipped over and unspoken. Nobody wants to talk about what happened, Janus hates himself for continuing to love his abuser, Remus wants what’s best for Janus, and everyone else is kind of just there.  
> Thanks for reading, anyways.


End file.
